The photo — of three tall young men stretching up from polished shoes firmly planted on West Broadway to the pockmarked, skyscraper-abused sky — reached across time and space and brought with it a dabbling of tears for Troy’s eyes. This was the morning. That morning. Three decades ago that, if it didn’t quite seem like yesterday, then perhaps felt like just last Wednesday. It had been a charmingly warm day in late October, and they had stopped briefly to snap a picture to commemorate the occasion. Nelson had nearly forgotten the dossier that kept the ink-jetted surface of the Plan of Plans. In the photo, it sat gingerly in Nelson’s clutch, a silent fourth partner to the three young men, a fourth presence that the well-arranged photo managed to capture on that late October morning, the morning they met Mr. Fabioso. That morning.
Photo from guerreisms